


Nick's Cafe

by fhsa_archivist



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman Beyond
Genre: Drabble, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-18
Updated: 2004-06-18
Packaged: 2019-02-05 18:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12799596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhsa_archivist/pseuds/fhsa_archivist
Summary: Terry learns some things about the original Batman and Bruce gets a visit from an old friend.





	Nick's Cafe

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

Nick’s Café

 

Terry McGinnis entered the small club through a side door and knew immediately he was out of his league. He barely glanced round as he moved forgettably through the room, blending with the other Gotham revelers and practically disappearing from sight right in front of them. The few people he encountered in the darkened area were completely uninterested in him, caught up only in each other. 

 

He wove through them, pushing to the bar past what passed as a dance floor. It was oppressively warm in the old room, with stale air that was stirred inadequately by antiquated ceiling fans. He pressed through the crush of bodies and to the bar, leaning against the wood worn smooth by years of patrons like himself. When he felt a little more comfortable, he faced the crowd moving about the floor in a macabre dance whose only rhythm seemed to be the ebb and flow of their own bodies. 

 

“What’s your pleasure?” a low voice at his ear beckoned.

 

He turned to face the barkeep. Dark-skinned masculine features framed by the long black hair characteristic of Native Americans, brooding and beautiful.

 

He started to refuse, not wanting to push his luck, knowing he was underage.

 

"It‛s all right," the bartender admonished with a lazy blink of his darkly warm eyes. "Everything is all right here. You can have whatever you want." His voice was inviting, his words were an invitation.

 

“Beer," Terry managed. "Whatever’s on tap – “ 

 

The easy smile of the young man made a too-long denied part of him intrigued, flattered, and undeniably hungry. It was the atmosphere in this place. It made it too easy to remember, and even easier to forget. Forget all the things he'd worked for, the things he'd sacrificed for. Forget the things that had sacrificed him. 

 

The heavy glass stein of beer returned quickly and he took it from the bartender, their fingers brushing lightly as he handed over money for it, motioning the other man to keep the change. He turned back to the crowd, scanned it cursorily and found what he was looking for. 

 

He was here. 

 

Dancing in the centre of the group that owned the floor. He had been here before, before Terry had discovered who he was, before Terry had even known of this part of Gotham. Terry didn’t even pretend to deny to himself that the man in the crush of bodies was the reason he was here tonight; and the reason he hadn‛t told Bruce where he‛d be going. 

 

Alexander Luthor, III. Grandson of Lex Luthor, five years older than Terry himself and the current heir to the Luthor throne.

 

‛Alex‛ Luthor had a compelling quality to him, something undefinable that made you want to agree with him, believe whatever he said. The man looked up now, recognition a warm emotion devoid of surprise washing across his face. He beckoned to Terry, his body moving to the erotic beat of Native American drums and flutes, something African maybe, driving and primitive. 

 

Terry brought the beer to his mouth and drank deep, cold swallows, but he didn‛t move. He was content to stand and watch the man on the dance floor. Reddish brown hair cut close to the scalp, looking more like his grandfather than his father, dressed in expensive silk that molded to his body, flowing with his movements. 

 

He dominated the crowd without effort and they looked to him for the dance, for the mood. They emulated him. There was a subtlety to the young man, a surety and confidence that usually came with age but on Luthor, it draped comfortably like second skin. 

 

On the floor, Luthor smiled and allowed himself to be distracted by a striking woman next to him. She fitted her body to his, her hips pressed into his groin, stroking his erection as they danced, bodies undulating together. An equally stunning taller man with ebony skin and fuck-me eyes joined them. 

 

Luthor easily stood six feet and yet this newcomer had him by four or five inches. He was breathtaking, long dreadlocks, incredible body and as beautiful a man as Terry had ever seen. The three moved together as one with Luthor sandwiched between them deliciously. Luthor licked his lips, locking eyes with Terry again. The new man glanced over the bar, looking for the source of Luthor‛s distraction. He met Terry‛s eyes and looked slowly up the length of his body before smiling dangerously. 

 

‘You’re uninvited’ the look plainly warned. Terry smiled back; since donning the suit of Batman, he‛d rarely found himself intimidated. His gaze went back to the man he’d come here hoping to find and decided to take the ebony-skinned man up on his challenge. He moved onto the parquet floor, what an summons couldn’t invoke, the unspoken warning had. He stopped just short of the trio and waited, like a neophyte, a postulant. He watched them, enjoying the attention they paid each other. Luthor‛s original look of recognition slowly evolved into curiosity and then to interest. Terry joined in, stepping between Luthor and the woman, separating them, his hand at the back of her neck and his back to Luthor. 

 

Turning her to him, Terry brought the beer to her lips, tilting the bottle back. She drank deeply, licking the lip of it as he brought it away. He began his stake then, turning her away before she could return to the dance, pointing her toward a impossible beauty a few steps away. She fell into the rhythm of the beauty without dissent. Now it was the three of them. 

 

Terry turned toward Luthor and waited. The man he’d come to find moved away from his companion and pulled Terry to him, tucking him into the long masculine length of his body. Terry let him fit their bodies together, the long restrained desires flaring immediately. Luthor‛s mouth was so close. So warm. And beautiful. And undeniable. Terry put a tentative hand to Luthor‛s chest and it was covered instantly by long, sensual, fingers. He closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the warm body. He felt the rasp of five‛o‛clock shadow, the fleeting touch of lips against his jaw and held still, afraid to let go to the intense desire. 

 

Luthor wrapped his hand around the bottle Terry still held and brought it to his mouth. His incredible mouth. Luthor drained the bottle and kissed him, tasting of beer and power and sex. Terry kissed back, roughly, his tongue deep in that incredible mouth. 

 

He pulled away. It had been so long and the need building within him was intimidating. Luthor sensed it and lay his hand along Terry’s jaw, neither pulling nor possessing. Terry allowed their faces to drift together, foreheads touching. He closed his eyes, letting Luthor trace his lips with a gentle finger before tentatively mimicking the action with his tongue. Stroking the soft skin and carefully tasting the depths of his mouth again. The two men moved toward each other, nesting their bodies, shadowing each other. Terry pushed the thick red hair away from Luthor‛s face, his hands moving down the long neck and across the shoulders. His hands pressed strong, masculine hips into his own, stroking down to grip the firm ass. Quickly hardening cocks grated against each other through the rough denim fabric, erotic and urgent. 

 

The third man smiled and moved away, knowing when three became a crowd, thinking 'another time'. 

 

The new partners moved in tandem now, their movements sensually slow and evocative. Terry pressed his leg between his partner’s, thrusting against Luthor‛s leg. He felt the blood in his body pool in his cock, concentrating his desires and thoughts. He looked around quickly but found no one on the dark dance floor paying them any attention. They were all involved in their own games of seduction and appetite. Hunger.

 

It was in the air, and he sensed it from the crowd. Undeniable, uncontrollable hunger. For each other; for themselves. He glanced around again.

 

“Bashful?” Luthor asked, his voice not accusing, just concerned. “Or are you already looking for someone else?”

 

“I found who I was looking for,” Terry clarified.

 

Luthor drank in the even, low tone of Terry's voice, so carefully controlled for one so young.

 

“So, young assistant to Bruce Wayne, what now?”

 

“I wasn‛t sure you‛d remember me,” Terry countered.

 

“Why would I forget such a delicious, intriguing young man?"

 

"Intriguing?" Terry scoffed back.

 

"A high school student who works so closely with the richest, most reclusive man in town? Makes a business man like me wonder all kinds of things - "

 

"I‛m over eighteen!"

 

"How do you ever get anything you want that way?" Luthor admonished. He moved around Terry, his voice soft, the brush of his body never leaving Terry‛s. "Always answering questions with questions, always defending yourself.” 

 

“Old habits,” Terry excused. “Here‛s another question for you: what are you doing here?”

 

“Oh, no. It’s a little late for casual ‘date’ conversation,” Luthor whispered at the back of Terry‛s neck, slipping his hands into the back of his waistband. Luthor kneaded the small of Terry‛s back softly with his knuckles through the soft cotton of Terry’s shirt.

 

“I was looking for you,” Terry tried again. 

 

“Way too generic,” Luthor reprimanded. He pushed his hands into the pockets of Terry’s jeans and pulled them tighter.

 

The buttons of his fly cut across his erection, biting into flesh. He hissed a breath through his teeth. Moving back around, Luthor pressed his body along Terry’s, his legs to Terry’s. Luthor kissed him again, coarsely, hungrily. Terry had come this far and Luthor was making it plain he wasn’t about to let him back away. Their mouths slid against each other’s; Luthor kissed as good as he looked, and with the skilled practice of someone who indulged himself quite often.

When they broke apart, Luthor grinned at him. “You know, I usually avoid someone else’s territory.” 

 

The implication coalesced and solidified in Terry‛s mind, comporting into realization. He shoved Luthor away hard, earning the attention of Luthor’s former dance partner once again. The heavily muscled man moved closer, a threatening look on his face.

 

“I am not Wayne‛s toy!” Terry denied, ignoring the threat. 

 

“It’s okay,” Luthor quelled his coffee-skinned white knight, heading off the potential for confrontation.

 

The man didn’t back down. And suddenly Terry didn’t care. Without the Batsuit, this guy could probably wipe the floor with him but he didn’t care. He felt somehow betrayed and wondered if that‛s what everyone in Gotham thought of him. 

 

Terry pushed past Luthor and headed for the door. Coming here had been one more mistake in his lifelong habit of them. The door was impossibly far away as he shouldered through the mob of bodies crowding the dance floor. Luthor’s hand slowed him down briefly, long fingers wrapping around his arm, the warmth he’d come looking for bleeding into his skin. 

 

"You’re the one who came here, what were you looking for? A quick fuck? Or perhaps a little freedom, a bit of civil disobedience?"

 

Terry shrugged the hand off and pushed outside.

 

He was halfway across the parking lot when Bruce‛s strong voice, deepened by age, stopped him. Wayne's limo crept up to pace alongside him. Terry glanced back at the door to see if Alex Luthor had followed him. He hadn‛t.

 

"I should have known you‛d show up," Terry walked past the tinted window of the limo without slowing. "What‛d you do, plant one of your bugs on me?"

 

"No, I had an idea where you might be headed when you left the mansion earlier," Bruce explained. "Turned out I was right."

 

"So, what? You decided to follow me down here, act the Dark Knight in shining armour and save me from myself?"

 

“What are you pissed off about?” Bruce demanded. “It's not like I stopped you from coming down here, I didn't go inside and drag you out."

 

"Probably because I beat you to it. Disappointed?"

 

“I’m a very good listener,” Bruce offered.

 

"I guess I‛m just not in the mood for talking tonight, Bruce."

 

Terry cut between two cars to shake the limousine.

 

“Come on, Terry, get in,” Bruce called out louder. 

 

The long car circled around again, cutting Terry off. The driver slowed to a stop in front of him. Inside, Bruce waited patiently. He couldn't force Terry to accept the ride, the boy was far beyond needing an old man's advice or listening to adult patronage. But he could wait. His strange choice of lifestyle had given him many things; one of them was patience.

 

That patience was rewarded when Terry shoved his hands deep in his pockets and made his way back to the car. 

 

"Drop me off at home." He added a belated "please" that was anything but gracious.

 

Bruce nodded to the driver and the car moved slowly out of the parking lot. Long miles of silence passed between before Bruce spoke again.

 

"Are you hungry?" he interjected into the quiet of the car.

 

Terry shook his head.

 

“I’d offer to buy you a beer, but seems like you already had one.”

 

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been there,” Terry pointed out.

 

“I know.”

 

“How? Never mind,” Terry interrupted himself. “I guess I thought no one had ever seen me. You 

never said anything.”

 

"I didn't think it was my place to," Bruce shrugged. 

 

Terry glared at the older man, wanting -needing- to say what he was really thinking. “How long?” he ground the words out. "How long have you known?"

 

“About Nick's Café?" Bruce turned toward the window, his voice faraway. "Longer than you.”

 

Bruce's words sank in. They had more in common than just the Bat-suit. Terry wondered just how much more.

 

Bruce pulled out a serving table from beneath the limo's seat. It locked into place and he set two glasses on it, filling each nearly full. Terry picked up the closer one and took most of it in one swallow.

 

"Just be careful, Terry, you're more than Batman; you're a person with a life and a destiny outside of that suit. I never let myself realize that. You can choose who you have around you, they don't always have to be part of the job."

 

The limo slowed to a stop in front of the building where Terry still lived with his mother and younger brother. He pushed the heavy door open and got out, standing for a moment on the weathered sidewalk.

 

"Goodnight, Bruce."

 

He swung the door shut before Wayne could reply.

 

***

Wayne Manor held the winds of the approaching storm at bay, but not the chill they swept across Metropolis. Bruce crossed the cavernous foyer and into downstairs study. As usual, a fire smoldered in the stone hearth, warming the room and reflecting off the rich, mahogany bookshelves. He stoked the embers and added a few pieces of wood.

 

He sensed the other man's presence before he saw him.

 

"Hello, Lex. I won't ask how you got in," he said without turning.

 

"It's Alex these days."

 

"It doesn't matter what you're calling yourself, you're still the same person."

 

Wayne refused to look at him, refusing to acknowledge this incarnation of the man he'd known so well.

 

"Stones and glass houses, Bruce," he chided. "You're such a creature of habit, you haven't even changed the locks." Lex dangled a single key from an expensive silver key fob.

 

Luthor moved from the shadows of the room, into the growing glow of firelight. Bruce shoved at the burning wood harder.

 

"I thought you were dead; why change the locks?"

 

"The rumours of my death were greatly exaggerated," Luthor smiled. "Did you miss me?"

 

Wayne elected not to reply.

 

"Come on, Bruce, it's been twenty years since we've seen each other. Surely you can think of something to talk about." 

 

Lex poured himself a generous glass of brandy from the serving cart near the window. "Mauleon d'Armagnac," he mused. He sipped slowly and smiled. "Mmmm. '63 is still the best year they ever produced and you just can't get it anymore. Terrible thing, limited supply. Join me?"

 

He poured another and picked it up, walking over behind Bruce. Lex held the glass by Wayne's shoulder, waiting until Wayne took the glass. Wayne stood and faced his guest. This man couldn't have been more than barely out of his teens and yet they'd had this same conversation in this room when Wayne himself was still a young man; when he was still trolling the night behind the anonymity of the Suit. Bruce had scoured the planet until he found two bottles in a private collection in Tuscany. It had cost him a small fortune to persuade their owner to sell. The amber liquid in the crystal decanter was the last of it, the rest shared between the two men more than forty years ago.

 

Lex tapped their glasses together lightly. "To old friends," he toasted, draining the rest of the brandy. 

 

He moved away and set the glass on the antique desk.

 

"You never answered me, Bruce."

 

"Your plane went down at sea."

 

"So it did. I was getting old and I don't look good old, and why bother when you can be eternal?" Lex leaned over Bruce's shoulder. "We could be, you and I. What do you say, Bruce, shall we be eternal?"


End file.
